


then in death's box

by jaqhad (kyrilu)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreamsharing, Gen, MayThe4th Treat, Pre-Star Wars: The Rise of Skywalker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23571955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/jaqhad
Summary: A mysterious stranger challenges Rey to play a game of ancient space chess.
Relationships: Sheev Palpatine & Rey
Comments: 23
Kudos: 36
Collections: May the 4th Be With You Star Wars Fanworks Exchange 2020





	then in death's box

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosecake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosecake/gifts).



Rey dreams of the _Millennium Falcon_. She has dreamed of the _Falcon_ before, perched in the pilot’s seat and hurtling through space faster than anything. Sometimes Chewbacca is beside her. Sometimes Han Solo is, a different world where she accepted his offer to be part of his crew, and he lived.

Right now, she is not in the cockpit. She is in the heart of the ship, standing in front of the holochess table.

A man wearing a hood sits at the table. “Rey. Please take a seat. I was about to start a game.” 

Upon closer inspection, she realizes that it isn’t the usual holochess table after all -- the grid is divided into different sections, and there are physical pieces on the board instead of holo-images of colorful creatures.

Uneasily, she moves toward the stranger, examining the transformed arrangement. The pieces are carved into sculpted figures. They remind her of the handmade dolls that she used to make for herself as a child, created from rough fabrics of scrap that she’d collected. 

“I made the first move,” the man says. “It’s your turn.” 

“I don’t know how to play this,” Rey tells him, frowning. “Who are you?” 

“No,” he says, gently. “You do know how to play, Rey. Come now. Make your move.” 

She peers at the board again. He’s moved the piece of a man on his knees, and unbidden, she thinks: _I know this game._ Her fingers find a piece from the opposite end of the board, a soldier bearing a mace, and she advances it.

His next play is a man who is carrying tools in his hands -- some kind of ancient hydrospanner and sickle. “The Craft,” the stranger says, “is an unassuming piece. He’s a mere tradesman and tinkerer, yet he forms an essential defense that protects the others.” 

Rey settles across from him. She doesn’t know why she’s doing this -- it’s a strange sort of dream -- but an unusual familiarity thrills through her. Someone taught her this game, long ago, a gentle voice explaining the rules, a gentle hand guiding hers. Nothing like the mysterious sharpness of her current opponent, though it’s here, ingrained in her head.

As they trade off more plays, pieces click-clacking against the board, the stranger says, “Do you know who made the armor of Darth Vader?” 

Rey hadn’t expected this conversational turn. “What--? No, of course not. I’ve seen the holos of it. It’s a full-bodied thing. Durasteel and armor-weave cape. Not like Kylo’s helmet.” 

“Ah, yes, that boy’s imitation mask,” the man sneers, his lip curling underneath the shadow of his hood. “Vader’s suit was _armor_. Life support, body, and weapon all at once. He made a fearsome sight. Which begs the question: who was the hand behind the forge? Who was the genius behind the design?”

“It sounds like you know the answer.” 

“Indeed,” he says. “His name was Doctor Cylo. A rather arrogant man who incorrectly presumed he was immortal. However, his work regarding cyberkinetics and technology was unsurpassed. He turned his talents toward resurrecting Vader.” 

Rey’s opponent snaps his next piece on the board, fast. It’s his Vizier, a man with a long hat, and Rey narrows her eyes and topples it with the slingshot movement of one of her warriors. 

The man laughs. It’s a crackling cackle. “Very good. But you’ll have to do better than that.” His Beast, a monster with claws, uses the opening to take out her Fortress, a blocky castle.

Rey asks, “What are you trying to say about this--Cylo?” 

“In a moment, Rey,” he says, returning his attention to the campaign at the corner of the board. “Allow me to ask you another question: Do you remember who taught you how to play this game?” 

She swallows. Breathes. “Yes. It’s none of your business. I don’t know who you are. Or what kind of dream this is.”

Is he a figment of her imagination? A vision, like when she touched the lightsaber in Maz Kanata’s castle for the first time? Or something like the cave on Ahch-To, a shimmering dark mirror that recognizes her? 

“Your father taught you,” the man says. His voice is like the winds of Jakku -- seemingly tender, but then you feel sand digging into your skin -- like a thousand angry biting gnaw-jaws, like the sting of blaster bolts. “He learned it from me, and it appears he showed it to you and your mother both. A diversion for his little family in hiding. You are a better player than him. But you cannot upend the Imperator. No one can.”

He gestures to the crowned robed piece on his board. He is right; Rey is losing. Her Knight is the most powerful piece in play and it is barely guarding her own Imperator, trying to take out her opponent’s warriors. Her Dowager and her Outcast are making attacks on the opposing Fortress; but still, it evades her and does not fall. 

“My father,” Rey says, “was--was _nobody._ And he and my mother left me on Jakku. They _sold_ me to Unkar Plutt as if I was a piece of merchandise. I tried to wait for them, but I'm not anymore.” How could this stranger claim to know her parents? 

The hooded man shakes his head. “It was such foolishness to leave you on Jakku. Jakku, you see, was the stage of my Contingency. My demesne, if you will.” His fingers rap the board.

“I had hoped to destroy the New Republic fleet and the weak Imperial remnants who had lost their way. There was a plan set in motion to explode the planet… to eliminate the battling forces above and below. There was to be a ritual that would stress Jakku’s core, casting Sith artifacts into the pit of it...

“... It was foiled. Yet the darkness remained under the surface, and your parents hoped that the energy was enough to obscure your presence. They assumed I’d never imagine you would be there, of all places. They paid Unkar Plutt to deliver you to the care of Jakku’s anchorites dedicated to the Force, who would teach you to hone your abilities.

“Unfortunately, Plutt had his own ideas. He is quintessential Outer Rim junker vermin, so naturally, he pocketed their credits and decided that he needed a small scavenger with clever fingers who could climb Jakku’s downed ships. Perhaps he reassured himself that the anchorites had an unseemly reputation… harsh taskmasters who collected orphans… and told himself that he was doing you a favor.

“Nevertheless, Rey, my dear, you _lived._ You ran away from Plutt. Under the harshness of the sun, in the plains of swirling sands, you bloomed like the nightblossoms that covered the desert. The Force grew in you, untamed, unabated, until one day, it awoke.”

Rey is very, very still. “You’re supposed to be dead,” she whispers, her hands shaking over her knight. “How do you know all of this about me? You’re--” 

“Vader was not the only one that Doctor Cylo resurrected,” the Emperor says. “Cylo’s immortality was based in clones. Reflections of himself. Despite his eventual demise, his research had its uses. I am one such creation. Your father was another. And our blood runs in you.” 

“You can’t be _real_ ,” Rey bursts out. “You can’t be _alive._ It’s been years--ages--and I can’t be related to you. You’re a Sith, a monster!” She springs up and wishes that she had her staff, a lightsaber, any weapon, but there is nothing for her to grab. 

This is just a dream. Isn’t it?

The Emperor puts down the hood of his robe. He is a wizened man, lines on his face, his hair silver white, his eyes gleaming yellow. “It is the truth. You have every claim to darkness and power, Rey. Not merely as your birthright--but as the simmering child who grew up alone and walked her own path.

“Luke Skywalker couldn’t be the teacher you wanted. Ben Solo cannot, either. Leia Organa is a weary relic of the last war -- a Force-sensitive military mind, though no Master of the Force. They are a family mired in tragedy and tribulation. It is time to begin anew.”

He points to the demesne. At the unfinished game of shah-tezh. “My granddaughter, I can teach you how to win. You may fear me--you may loathe me--yet more than anything, you wish for victory, survival, and connection. The same desperate child of the desert. For this, the dark side welcomes you as one of its own." 

She looks at him with eyes like Jakku's single searing sun. “Whatever you are, get out of my head.” She closes her eyes, and she breathes like Luke and Leia have taught her to breathe, feeling the universe, feeling the stars. “Even if this is a dream, this is _my ship._ You don’t belong here.” 

The Emperor laughs again. “I know you will seek me out, in the end, and it will not be the light that guides you. I killed your parents--”

Rey screams a wordless scream. It’s like wrestling a gundark; it’s like flying through a storm. The ship shudders around her, and then it dissipates, dissolves, and she is left standing in a void of white.

The Emperor is gone. She looks down at her clenched fist, opens it, and sees her Imperator in her palm. 


End file.
